Drafted
by Amongst-Azarath
Summary: Wallace West has been drafted to fight for America in The Great War. He wishes he had told Artemis why he was really enlisted, but it's too late. WallXArt.


_Heh. Another YJ. Don't know what happened here, I just busted it out about an hour ago. Not amazing stuff, mistakes and all the usual stuff. But I kinda like it._

_I have no idea whether I'll continue this or not :)._

_Disclaimer: Don't own_

_Read and please review :)._

**_Enjoy._**

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**_Drafted_**

She watches him flip the lid of his large, brown leather suitcase down. The latches lock themselves with light clicks. He turns to look at her, all made up. Her blonde hair is tied up in victory rolls, the rest cascading down her back in large curls. Her eyes are darkened with a little mascara and her lips coated with a dark crimson. She is dressed in a dark olive matching two piece suit with a skirt. Moderately high black Mary-Janes cover her feet and matching black leather gloves cover her delicate hands.

Her dark grey eyes are still glowing with anger and sadness as she leans her left shoulder on the wooden door frame leading into the kitchen. A sorrowful smile catches his lips as he gets to his feet. He turns his whole body to face her. Her expression hasn't changed.

"Doll face, don't look so bent," his voice is weary, but his intention of an upbeat tone still shines through.

"How can I not?" She retorts with venom through those thick red lips. She regrets how angry she feels, but she can't stop herself from venting her fury. She wants to tell him how good he looks in a soldiers khaki uniform, even with the little hat tousled amongst his fiery red hair. But she just can't.

He goes towards her, trying to reconcile. He doesn't need this just before he leaves. He doesn't want to leave on bad terms, especially if he doesn't know if he'll ever come back. He needs the memories. 'They're the only thing that'll get you through,' he remembers Barry mind numbly pep talking him a few hours before.

"It's my duty, babe," he defends himself, taking her gloved hands in his own.

"There are plenty of other greaseballs that can go and fight for our country," she counters, her eyes losing their spark of anger and filling with distress.

He laughs, sending out a deep chuckle from his lower range. "They only pick the best," he jests, trying to lighten the mood. It works, for a moment.

A sadden smile floods onto her face. "You're a twit."

"I love you too," he replies sarcastically as his hands drop hers. They snake around her waist instead and pull her close to him, their chests touching.

Her grey eyes look into his charming green ones. The loving look he's giving her only makes it all worse. She drops her gaze and her muscles loosen. He frowns and pulls her even tighter. Startled, she looks back up at him.

"Give me a smooch," he commands with his trademark goofy smile. She rolls her eyes, pursing her lips a little. He raises an eyebrow at her lack of movement. "Don't be a tease," he whines, "it's the last one I'm going to get for a while."

That's it. She breaks his grip forcefully and steps back. Her look is murderous and her stance stern. He realises what he's said. He swallows as his eyes search hers.

"I'll come back," he starts softly. "I promise."

It only angers her more. "You can't promise that," she almost growls.

He takes a hesitant step towards her. She keeps her ground. "I can," he reiterates his point with a more forceful tone. However, the tone implies more. She frowns for moment, confused. The moment is broken by a few beeps of a horn.

He looks to his left and his calm state shatters, and so does hers. She leaps into his arms, realising that this could be the last time she ever sees her husband. He staggers at the sudden weight before gripping her tight.

He can feel the emotion clogging his chest, making it jump up high into his upper chest, creating short and shallow breaths. "I love you so much," he whispers into her ear.

A sob rips from her throat. "I love you too," her voice breaks. She can feel him pulling away, but she tightens her grip. She can't let this end. She has to tell him everything she's thinking, but she doesn't have the time. She wants him to know how much she loves him, how much she'll miss him, how agonisingly painful it will be when he's gone and how she'll be completely devastated if he never makes it back. "I'll miss you," she adds with a whisper. She can't say it, not now.

"I'll miss you too."

The horn toots again. He pulls back and she finally breaks her death grip. He sees the tears in her eyes and he quickly turns, heading for his suitcase. He can't stand the water works, especially now. He's already on the edge of tears and her weeping will only make it worse. He needs to go now, realising the consequences for everyone if he doesn't.

He bends slightly as his hand reaches for the case. He grips the handle and he stands up straight. He turns back to her. She's still in the same spot, the clear liquid flowing down her cheeks, beginning to ruin her make up. He feels that tugging in his chest. He swears inly at himself. He wishes he had told her the truth. He wishes he told her why he was really conscripted. It's too late.

"You better keep your promise, West."

He tries to pull out a confident smile, but she can see right through it. "I will, Artemis," he replies seriously before heading for the door. His mind swarms with thoughts as he goes for the door. She doesn't realise the effort he's gone to. The funds in a spare bank account, enough to live the rest of her life comfortably, the support from Barry and Iris, and finally, his best friend, Dick Grayson's word to keep her safe and happy. He shuts the thoughts off.

He vanishes from her view and she wants to run after him, to beg him to stay, to beg his officer to stay, but she can't. She can't do that to him. She knows how much this duty means to him. He's fighting for America's future, preventing anyone from taking away America's freedom, saving innocent lives and, most of all, keeping _her_ safe. He can't chicken out. It was either war or jail. She knew he'd choose war in a heartbeat. He was too proud for his own good.

She hears the door close with a light click. She sprints to the door and grips the curtains hiding the outside light from the window directly next to the door. Her eyes peer through the small gap she made with the curtain.

Her grey eyes carefully follow the red head man carrying his large suitcase. Her eyes swap to the automobile waiting at the kerb, and then back to Wally. The image clicks and she frowns. Her eyes flick back to the automobile. It was an automobile. It was a 1936 Buick to be exact. Recruits never got picked up in automobiles, especially a Buick. Her heart began to beat faster and her stomach churned. Why is she getting the feeling he's hiding something?

Her hand reaches for the handle at the exact time he reaches for the automobile door. They both pull open their respective doors. She whirls her head from the window beside the door and leaps into the frame, looking to the street outside.

It's too late. He's already inside the car. Her breath gets caught in her chest as she sees the door slam shut. It's too late. He's gone.

The tears are streaming down her face now, warm and salty. She can feel them pooling under her chin. She hears the Buick rev, but he's still not looking. She's too late.

Then he looks. Their eyes catch each other's. His expression falls further. She can see him reach for the door, but the car pulls away from the kerb. It revs again, changing gears. His expression turns frantic.

They both realise in that moment – _they might never actually see each other again._

She sprints, leaping off the porch and onto the cement path. She sees the door swing open, the Buick already driving past the next house.

She sees the commotion in the Buick before the door slams shut. She stops dead. The black Buick continues down the street.

And just like that, Wallace Rudolph West, was gone.


End file.
